


we stand together

by triesquid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e12 Master Plan, Gen, asshat!Harris, bamf!Lydia, even when they don't know that they're pack yet, harris is a creepy fuck, low self-esteem!Stiles, pack love is pure love, post-Master Plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:20:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/triesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of "Master Plan", there's still ordinary, everyday things like school, which, in Stiles' case, means suffering through another rousing game of What's Harris Going To Do To Me Today?--fun for the whole family!  There's a home-version of the game and everything.</p>
<p>But, Stiles couldn't be more surprised when other's stand up for him when he can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we stand together

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a thing that should happen. Just sayin'.

Stiles slid onto the stool between Scott and Danny—Lydia and Allison and Isaac sitting at the table in front of them like some sort of weird united front keeping Stiles insulated in the middle (which, seriously, when had that started to happen?)—and knew just—he just  _could not handle_  today.  He couldn’t.  He just wanted to skip class—skip the  _entire freaking day_ —and hide in bed.

It was one of those days, and it had been preceded by an entire weekend spent running, jumping, ah-a-tree-ing and poking werewolves with spoons with Derek and Isaac, ducking Scott’s hopeful-and-heartbroken calls and texts (because him and Allison were definitely on the “off” side of the on-and-off relationship again), trying not to lie to his father too much, dodging Danny anytime Stiles wasn’t doing the whole thing in the woods, and trying to answer all of Lydia’s questions and make up good, official-sounding reasons why Jackson was suddenly alive again.

So, yeah, good times.  Except, ya know,  _not_.

Hence the idea of bed=\o/.

But, of course, Finals were fast approaching (like the inevitable speeding wolfsbane bullet—was there a  _reason_  that Stiles couldn’t just Matrix finals?  ’Cause, really, he was 1 billion percent done with this year.), so Stiles was not going to skip class; he was not going to skip fucking Harris’ Chemistry class.

Not with the skipping of Chemistry.

Really.

As much as he really, really,  _really_  wanted too.

Stiles was going to get the A that he had totally earned in Chemistry if it killed him (or Harris—he wasn’t picky), and he wasn’t going to give Harris any reason, that Stiles could prevent, for dropping his grade by even one hundredth of one percent.

No matter what Harris said about his intelligence (Stiles was fucking brilliant, and he knew it.).

No matter how much Harris purposefully made Stiles feel like a jackass (which was often and with very little help—those ADHD-induced impulsivity issues were totally an easy target, especially when Stiles knew that he was kind of overly sensitive to, like,  _everything_ :  emotions, suggestions, craziness.).

No matter how much Harris epically humiliated Stiles in class everyday (and Stiles  _would not_  let Harris know how much every little dig got to him, how much it wore away at his self-esteem, how much the only thing that kept Stiles from giving up on the class was that  _it pissed Harris off that Stiles was an excellent student_.)

Immovable object met irresistible force, bitch.

And that meant class.  With Harris.  Who was looking particularly dick-ish today.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Just,  _fucking beautiful_.

Stiles was so dead.

_I.  Cannot.  Do.  This.  TODAY._

And, as Harris started in on today’s requisite make-Stiles-feel-awful spiel, Stiles just—tuned it out, all blessing-and-curse like, and after an indeterminable span of ranting and poking and prodding, there were Harris’ hands on Stiles’ shoulders (which, really, weren’t teachers like  _not_  supposed to bad-touch their students?) asking him something pointed that Stiles hadn’t heard because it was just so much easier to be passive today, to give no fucks, to just take the abuse.

Submission.  The word for today was definitely submission.

“Well, I guess that I shouldn’t be surprised by your lack of response, Mr. Stilinski.  You are, after all, a complete waste of oxygen in this class.”  It was practically snarled into Stiles’ ear, and Stiles knew from snarls now—that was a freaking snarl.

Which, wow, that was harsh even for Harris.

And, Stiles just kinda sunk further down, hiding as well as he could between and behind his friends, feeling powerless and attacked in a space that was really supposed to be safe:  safe from bullies, safe from harassment, safe from the dangers of the world.

But wasn’t.  Never really was; never really would be.

But what happened when those that were supposed to protect you were the ones that harmed you?

Stiles stole a look at Isaac’s back situated directly in front of Stiles, and for the first time ever, Stiles felt like he understood why Isaac had said yes to the Bite.

Suddenly, Lydia was up on her feet—standing, there was definitely standing going on—looking furious and beautiful and like she was going to gut someone with her bare hands.

So, too much time with werewolves.

“Professor Harris,” Lydia spoke all imperious voice and barely suppressed rage.  ”According to faculty rules of conduct and school mandates against bullying, you are in no way allowed to speak to Stiles in such away.”

Harris just kinda—smirked.  Wow, that was an evil smirk, like the eviliest smirk to ever smirk, and Stiles had been up-close-and-personal with  _Peter freaking Hale_.  And, had Lydia just stood up for Stiles?  “And, what, pray tell, are you going to do about it, Miss Martin?”

Lydia smiled—huge and feral and just a little bit too much like Peter.  

Fuck, this was going to end bloody.  

“This.”  Lydia turned to the class, hip popped to the side, hair perfect, head held proud, and spoke with straight fury.  ”We’ve all just kinda sat by while Professor Harris harassed and belittled one of our own, and that was so, so wrong.  We all know how awful it is that Professor Harris has been using Stiles as a verbal and emotional punching bag, but we can change that right here and right now—”

“Miss Martin, I would recommend that you sit down at once,” Harris tried to speak over Lydia— _to drown her out_ —as the faces around Stiles seemed to animate and realize that, as much as they didn’t want it to be—in  _this one instance_ —it really was a students-against-their-teacher situation:  them against him.

Lydia just flipped her hair, looked at Harris with a “bitch, please” look, and turned back to the class.  “We’re walking out.  Right here.  Right now.  All of us are going to the Vice Principle, and we are staging a protest about how Professor Harris has treated Stiles.  We each have stories.  We each know what’s been happening here—”

And, Harris made the biggest, worst mistake  _ever_.  

Harris grabbed Lydia’s shoulder.

He grabbed her shoulder as she finished the word “here,” and five thing happened simultaneously.

Isaac stood and growled at Harris.

Allison pulled a taser out of her bag.

Danny was dialing the Sheriff’s department.

Scott was moving to back Isaac up (or to keep him from ripping Harris’ head off, whichever).

And, Lydia—all five-foot-three-perfect-inches of her—grabbed Harris’ wrist, flipped him  _over her shoulder_ , and put one perfectly ridiculous heel to his throat.

“Or,” Stiles spoke—voice feeling small and far away—trying to wrap his head around what his friends—his  _Pack_  (even if not everyone was really being officially Pack-y yet) _-_ -were doing for him.  

For the guy who always felt like he was on the outside looking in—even with his friends.

For the guy who drove his Jeep through warehouse walls and hit people with it for them.

For the guy who knew the secrets that they all hid.

For the guy who would stay up for days on end researching—high on caffeine and too much Adderall—so that he could protect them just a little bit better.

For the guy who lived in a state of hyper-vigilance.

For the guy with such insatiable curiosity that it had started everything—all of this insanity.

For the Boy Who Ran With Wolves.

For the Man Who Became A Wolf—for them, for all of them.

What they were all doing for  _Stiles_.

“Or,” Stiles tried again, voice stronger, more convicted.  ”We could just wait for the cops to come and arrest your creepy ass for assault.”

There was definitely some justice to that.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, Harris pisses me off like whoa. I had a teacher just like him in high school (except that he taught Physics and his problem with me had to do with me having breasts), so I kinda can't stand the way he treats his students--and Stiles in particular. No teacher should ever make their students feel helpless and with no recourse.
> 
> And, as a once-college-teacher, I want his head on a pike for his assholier-than-thou-ness and alienation and favoritism of students. Someone really needs to report him...if this were RL and not a show about motherfucking _werewolves_. *SIGH*


End file.
